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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23096716">You’ve Echoed Me, Perfectly</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet'>Pink_and_Velvet</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Duran Duran</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Crush at First Sight, Games, M/M, Models, Nudity, Painting, Still life, Teasing, artist, catching feelings, meet cute, non band au</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:54:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,817</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23096716</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>John can’t concentrate on his work. His eyes are roaming and so are his hands.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Art Lesson AU<em></em></em>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Simon Le Bon/John Taylor (Duran Duran)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>You’ve Echoed Me, Perfectly</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John took his usual seat, far from the empty sofa that had been placed in the middle of the circle. He was surrounded by a bunch of fellow artists, ranging from lots of women with <em>Cyndi Lauper</em> hair and <em>Madonna</em> lace upon lace, to lots of men decked out in vibrant jackets, patterned shirts and hair that was spiked in all directions.</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes he did feel like an outsider, longing for the days of the punks and New Romantics as they swept their way through the streets. But that was then, it’s 1985 now.</p><p> </p><p>He stripped himself of his satin cloak, shaking the overgrown fringe from his eyes and unveiled a white satin shirt that was littered in paint splotches. He hadn’t felt like spending hours on his hair today so, he let his crunchy mullet flow any which way they wanted: a regular occurrence these days. He rolled up his sleeves, ran a hand through his hair, as he knocked his earring. He cursed.</p><p> </p><p>The art class were getting another go at still life today and John was a little miffed about it. He was more of an abstract artist, preferring cartoons over strict and routine portraiture. Vibrant colours and wild lines, they were much more his style. John, within reason, liked to have fun with his canvas: painting whatever the hell he felt like. No matter how minimalist it sometimes may be.</p><p> </p><p>He laid out his pencils and brushes on one side and took in the sight of the dark red, plush sofa. He began fidgeting with a pencil; warming up his nimble fingers and wrist. He heard voices, and a not so subtle strut as the muse walked in. John wasn’t looking, shielded eyes now planted firmly back on his blank canvas.</p><p> </p><p>The muse removed the dressing gown and took a seat. It took a few moments for the position to be decided, to be made comfortable and then they were sprawled out across the sofa. There was a blanket and pillows for modesty but, the model didn’t seem to be having any of it.</p><p> </p><p>John heard the rustling of other chairs, his fellow classmates on the hunt for the best viewing angle.</p><p> </p><p>It was then that he saw him. He dropped his pencil.</p><p> </p><p>It was a man before them, stretched out long and lean on his right side. He had a hand behind his head, his other in front of his chest. He had beautifully tanned shoulders, he was lightly muscled. He he shifted some, then relaxed as he found his spot. He had a small trail of blonde hair that disappeared under a small, pink fluffy blanket. Which was strange; his hair was black and spiked.</p><p> </p><p>The pink blanket was a whole other ballgame, carelessly draped over his hips, low down that his hip bones could still just be seen. He rolled his hips forward so he had one thigh perched in front of the other. Which meant to John, the blanket was clinging perfectly to his rounded bottom. He had some muscle on his legs with an even tan the whole way down.</p><p> </p><p>John was stunned. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d dropped his pencil until it was handed back to him, some emo artsy guy with wild black hair and heavily lined eyes tapping on his satin clad shoulder. After a few unsuccessful attempts at getting his attention, the man had simply given up and strutted away; heels clinking.</p><p> </p><p>His eyes roamed all over the figure before him, up and down, up and down. John took in a deep breath, steadied himself, and began with his outline.</p><p> </p><p>The man had a truly beautiful smile. It was all natural, not at all forced. It showed off his teeth, the corners of his lips curving upwards so high that his whole face creased up. His eyes were a mix of blue, they twinkled in the light like sapphires. His piercing gaze was lighting up his whole complexion. His jaw was refined but not too strong. It cast a lovely shadow down his neck, over the slump of his shoulders. He held his head so high, high enough that he would surely feel the strain in no time.</p><p> </p><p>John couldn’t focus. After numerous unsuccessful attempts of getting his outlines and proportions correct he puzzled over what details he had missed. There was something about the tops of his thighs, the trail of hair on his lower stomach and- the <em>blanket</em>. That’s what was wrong.</p><p> </p><p>The tents, the ripples in the fabric, the way it clung to his defined frame- was all wrong.</p><p> </p><p>John began rubbing away his pencil lines to trace back over them, dark eyes on the man before him the entire time. The pencil stilled in his grasp. He looked down, back to the canvas and sighed. He shook his head, abandoning his pencil on the easel before him.</p><p> </p><p>John knew he was blushing, he knew his cheeks were burning in what could’ve been frustration from his drawing, but it wasn’t frustration alone. The man before him, was alluring; his was stance too open and inviting. His body sang of cockiness in every way.</p><p> </p><p>John couldn’t help himself. He ran a shaky hand through his heavily sprayed hair and tried to regain his composure. Not at all cool, nor suave.</p><p> </p><p>He took the pencil in hand again, his fingers clutching to it tight. Leaning forward, his eyes narrowed and lips pursed, to solely concentrate on the man and the hips that he couldn’t quite grasp. He cast his gaze back to the model and found, baffled, that he had moved. He had <em>dared</em> to move. It was nothing obvious but, his eyes had shifted in his sockets.</p><p> </p><p>His eyes, blue and silver, had locked themselves onto John. His gaze didn’t waver, the man didn’t flinch.</p><p> </p><p>John was sure, although he still had his doubts, that his grin had become more pronounced as his teeth were bared and his cheekbones highlighted. He was staring John down with a stare that spoke volumes and contradicted the innocence of the huge grin that coated his handsome face.</p><p> </p><p>He winked. John jumped.</p><p> </p><p>Two hours in, John delved deep into his pastels. He began with the lighter shades, to over line the defined muscles and contours of the model’s smooth body. He worked into the piece, layer upon layer, fingers smoothing out the remnants of pastel he left behind.</p><p> </p><p>John’s deft fingers lingered, the traitors, they hovered above the blanket he had etched. He grabbed hold of one side of the canvas, the other hand already descending to the outline. The tents and grooves. He tried to be quick about it but he couldn’t help himself. John ended up taking his sweet time, adding extra layers and shade, nimble fingers rubbing in circles right over the man’s concealed and restricted crotch.</p><p> </p><p>It took John far too long to recognise where his calloused fingers were, the motions. John flushed again.</p><p> </p><p>As for the man’s strong chest, he meticulously added layer upon layer, full of contour and definition but still, John wasn’t satisfied. He turned back to his model who again winked. It was fast but it surely wasn’t subtle.</p><p> </p><p>With a groan, John abandoned the chest, and headed to his face.</p><p> </p><p>His smile was incredible, John had captured his beauty in the only way he knew how: with all the attention and detail that he could give. Smiling to himself, he glanced to the clock. The realisation hit him quick, they didn’t have much longer until the session would be over.</p><p> </p><p>The final touches were made, with white pastels to highlight the way the light danced off of the body and blacks to define the grooves of his hips, the individual hairs on his head. What lay beneath the blanket.</p><p> </p><p>John’s hand hovered over his artwork as he reached for a gold crayon. He hadn’t noticed it until just now. The man wore a ring on his right hand, his other ring finger. It glistened against his tanned skin and John, fingering his glasses, found himself caught. He was staring aimlessly at those hands. Staring aimlessly long, delicate fingers and the gold that was wrapped around them.</p><p> </p><p>He coughed, heading back to his portrait.</p><p> </p><p>Time was up. The man stretched, yawning before he slowly got to his feet. His hand clutched to the fabric around his waist, but it was a loose hold.</p><p> </p><p>He rotated bodily to the left as he spoke to the woman running the class, she offered him back his dressing gown. His voice was soft, smooth. Rhythmical in places, almost.</p><p> </p><p>He was clutching to the blanket but, John was convinced, that he was privy to a much more <em>private</em> show. It wasn’t much but the shadow; the groove of his hips, the curve of his lower abdomen… John had seen enough. He turned away and shook his head, a smile gracing his ruby lips.</p><p> </p><p>Turning back, John jumped. Not quite able to stop himself from doing so. John hadn’t even noticed that the man was now stood beside him, covered up with his arms folded. He had been admiring John’s handiwork and had been talking to him about it, not that John had really responded. The man reached out, deft hands tracing the lines of the canvas as he spoke.</p><p> </p><p>John couldn’t hear a thing. His eyes stayed firmly on the grin that lit up the man’s face, the movement of his lips, the glint in his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“… you’re <em>incredibly</em> talented.”</p><p> </p><p>“Huh?”</p><p> </p><p>John was snatched from his daze. He sputtered something unintelligible and the man grinned wider at him.</p><p> </p><p>“Perhaps I’ll do this again sometime.”</p><p> </p><p>His tones dropped in desire. He winked at John; the flush in his face. The man cocked his head, his eyes roaming all over John’s six feet and one inch of podgy body. His widened eyes and parted lips, down his chest, his nimble figures, the bangles on his forearms.</p><p> </p><p>“You <em>echoed me,</em> very well.”</p><p> </p><p>The tent in John’s leathers.</p><p> </p><p>The man didn’t say another word. He simply brushed past John, a hand clapped his shoulder as he gave him a final stare. He winked, with the same smile as John had drawn. He began to walk away, his rounded bottom was perfectly highlighted: John could’ve sworn that the man was taunting him; with how he swayed as he strut.</p><p> </p><p>At the door the man whipped back around, strands of black spiky hair having fallen into his eyes. He crooked his finger, eyes firmly on John.</p><p> </p><p>John knew what that look meant. He hastily grabbed his things, abandoning his canvas, and slid into his satin jacket and followed after him. He was lured by his charm, his strength and his dominating aura. His mystical voice and somehow, John was convinced, of his stage presence. The man, he was glowing now, could do no wrong.</p><p> </p><p>John didn’t look back.</p>
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